


Today's the Day

by lady_needless_litany



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Cliffhangers, Don't copy to another site, Gen, Post-Apocalypse, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-08
Updated: 2019-10-01
Packaged: 2020-10-12 04:51:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20558537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lady_needless_litany/pseuds/lady_needless_litany
Summary: Anathema and Crowley become unexpected friends after the Not-Apocalypse. It goes well... until it doesn't.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AJfanfic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AJfanfic/gifts).

Crowley loved Aziraphale. Dearly, deeply. He loved the South Downs and their little cottage and their life together there. But there was a part of his soul that belonged in London.

Anathema, it seemed, was of much the same disposition. Once installed in the cottage in Tadfield, Newt was quite happy to remain there, doing odd jobs and going to the village coffee mornings and generally cloistering himself away from modern life; Anathema occasionally needed a touch of cosmopolitanism.

Apparently, it was reassuring to their respective partners for them to go out on the town together. There was a certain logic to it, admittedly, but the overwhelming chaotic energy that stemmed from putting a demon and a witch together somewhat nullified the argument. _At least you won't be getting into trouble alone_, Aziraphale had said, somewhat longsufferingly.

In short, they spend their time in London together, in yet another unexpected side-effect of the Not-Apocalypse.

It happened every two months or so, usually for a single day and night. They'd done some crazy things over the two years since The End, from parties and clubs to accidentally meeting a royal to doing some not-quite-legal sneaking around. Given their past occupations, it helped to stop them going stir-crazy from mundane life_—_that was their justification, at least.

Sometimes, though, they just went to a quiet restaurant: nothing too lavish, but indulgent and discreet, allowing them to enjoy each other's company in peace. Without getting the weird looks that they typically attracted. On that particular night, for example, Crowley had picked a cozy French restaurant in Covent Garden; he didn't eat the food, of course, but Anathema liked to try new places and dishes, and Crowley liked French wines. It was a nice place, all maroon upholstery and polished brass tables and exposed pipes. Very bohemian.

Punctuality was one of Anathema's habits, a hold-over from years of being a Professional Descendent; when parts of your life was predicted to the minute, Crowley supposed, you must learn a certain respect for time. Naturally, she had arrived before him, tucked into a snug table in the corner.

Crowley slid onto the seat opposite her, back to the rest of the room. "Evening."

"Evening," Anathema returned with a small smile. "How's everything?"

They exchanged pleasantries for a few minutes as they perused the menu, Anathema poring over the selection of food, while Crowley settled on a bottle of Burgundy Pinot Noir, a long-time favourite. As he did so, he noticed that he was continuously flicking his hair over his shoulder_—_he was growing it out and it was beyond shoulder-length again, as it had been in the years when he'd been attending to Warlock.

The arrival of a waiter distracted him. "Good evening. Can I get you anything to eat?"

"The Breton fish stew," Anathema requested.

"A good choice," he said approvingly. "And for you?"

"No food, thanks," Crowley replied. It took several reaffirmations and explanations to convince him that he truly didn't want any food_—_in the end, the other man ended up looking quite put-out.

Anathema, meanwhile, indulged in a touch of people-watching over Crowley's shoulder, observing the maître d' seating a couple at a table in the middle of the restaurant_—_

Suddenly, she tensed.

"Don't look," Anathema cautioned, keeping her voice level. "But there's two people over there and I think I recognise them." 

"Right." Crowley cocked his head, unsure of why Anathema had suddenly grown so serious.

She swallowed. "From the airfield."

Crowley's eyes widened. He twisted around, scanning the restaurant for the pair in question.

One of Anathema's hands shot out and dragged him back around. "I told you _not_ to look!" she hissed.

"Sorry," he said. And that was the first hint of something wrong, really_—_when did Crowley ever apologise? 

She ignored the apology, pressing forward. "Well?"

"It's them," he confirmed bleakly. His stomach had plummeted, his mind was fluttering like a trapped bird. "Beelzebub and Gabriel."

"But…" Anathema's tone reflected Crowley's own confusion. "That doesn't make any sense. One's an angel; the other's a demon."

"So are me and 'Zira," he responded, slightly defensive.

"You've always been different," she replied. 

As much as he hated to admit it at times, she was right_—_angels and demons simply didn't _fraternise,_ unless their names were 'Crowley' and 'Aziraphale'.

She pursed her lips. "What are they doing here?"

"They're not here for us. They haven't done anything yet." Crowley bit his lip in consternation. "But it's too much of a coincidence."

"I agree." She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, resettling her glasses on her nose. "We'd better keep a low profile."

A short nod signalled Crowley's approval. His wine arrived then, which he sampled mindlessly, taking a gulp that was too quick to taste.

Discreetly as she could, Anathema kept an eye on them, quietly informing Crowley of each gesture and facial expression. She needn't have worried_—_they were far too absorbed in their own conversation to notice her furtive glances.

Her bowl of food arrived, which she began eating, without paying much attention. 

"They've just gotten their food," she said, a few minutes later, feeling a twinge of sympathy for the young waiter that scurried away from their table, having been snapped at for being too friendly.

"Gabriel? Eating?" Crowley raised an incredulous eyebrow. "But he always ridicules Aziraphale for eating. Apparently."

Anathema made an indistinct noise in her throat. "It's fish, if that makes you feel any better."

"Hypocrite," Crowley muttered to himself, venomous.

"It's better than the other one_—_is it Beelzebub? They're eating the rawest steak I've ever seen. It's still bleeding."

"It's a demon thing," he replied with distaste, thinking of the rotten stench that pervaded hell. There was a reason that he steered clear of most food.

"It's so weird." Anathema was truly baffled, despite her intelligence, her perplexion tangible in her voice; Crowley felt much the same. "They're just sitting there. Eating dinner."

Crowley risked another quick, sneaky look. "Satan help us. Gabriel's actually smiling."

He had a bit of a hang-up about Gabriel, after the pretending-to-be-Aziraphale situation, so the thought of the man being _happy _was something between bitterly disappointing and infuriating.

"Beelzebub doesn't look unhappy either," she commented.

"I just don't understand why they're here." In a former life, Crowley would have been cocky enough to waltz up to them and demand an answer; as things stood after Armageddidn't (Crowley's preferred term for the fiasco), he was rather reluctant to remind them of his existence.

"Business?"

"Business? Heaven and Hell don't do _business_."

She shrugged. "No idea. That's more your department than mine."

"It's just that they look so relaxed. That's not normal."

'Normal' was, obviously, a relative term; having been raised as part of a long line of witches, Anathema wasn't too fond of the word. Still, this situation was… unexpected, to say the least.

The pair looked more-or-less as they had at the airfield, the only other time she'd encountered them: Gabriel was dressed in head-to-toe dove grey, while Beelzebub's gigantic fly had been replaced by a birds nest of black hair, presumably in an attempt to be less conspicuous. They needn't have bothered, of course_—_it was London and no-one would have thought much of it, besides assuming it was a bold fashion statement.

The most disconcerting thing, by far, was their demeanour. Yes, Gabriel looked as stern as usual. Yes, Beelzebub still appeared to be snapping at him. Yet they both seemed at ease, almost relaxed. Each was sat comfortably, focusing solely on their interlocutor, not surreptitiously watching the restaurant's patrons_—_unlike Anathema.

She found herself thinking out loud. "No… so maybe it's not business, then? Maybe it's friendly."

He snorted. "That would be the day."

"I don't know…" she said, pinching her eyebrows together in thought. Still careful to avoid drawing attention to herself, she peered at them again. "That's not the look of two people that hate each other."

He grudgingly turned again, more subtly than before, and watched them for a few moments. "I see your point," he conceded, resuming his former position. "But what are they doing?"

Not waiting for an answer, he lifted his glass to his lips. This was one of those times when he wished he could be truly, properly, humanly drunk; he certainly didn't want to remember whatever the hell that situation was.

On Anathema's side of the table, a thought began to dawn.

"Are they-" she said. She adjusted her glasses. "You don't think-"

Catching her drift, he shook his head, hard. "No."

Despite herself, she nodded her head slowly, growing in confidence. "Look at them."

"You can't _possibly _be suggesting-"

She said, even if she couldn't quite believe it, "They're on a date."

Crowley drained his glass. Anathema finished her stew.

"Well," Crowley said, gloomily, breaking the fraught interlude. "This is shit."

"It's a straight-up clusterfuck," Anathema corrected. "Because we can't get out of this restaurant without being seen, but the longer we sit here, the more likely they are to notice us."

It went without saying, of course, that being seen would be a Very Bad Thing. In all likelihood, there would be repercussions for witnessing something so unorthodox: miraculously wiped-clean memories, at best, or condemnation to the pits of Hell. Neither of them fancied their chances.

With a grimace, he concurred. "I can't even miracle us out of here. They'd sense it," he lamented.

She squinted at them a little harder, trying to make out their conversation. Lip-reading had never been her forte, but she gave it a good shot.

Until, to punctuate some unknown statement, Gabriel threw his hands in the air and cast a glance across the room as he did so. Then there was a lightning-fast sequence of events: angelic eyes meeting human ones, eyebrows rising in recognition, her heart turning to stone.

Anathema ducked her head, hissing, "I just made eye-contact with Gabriel."

Jaw hit floor. "You're joking."

"Nope."

A voice, strange and grating and louder than was socially acceptable, seeped across the room. "Crowley?"

Beelzebub.

Crowley, exhibiting a rare streak of self-preservation, didn't respond. A small part of him genuinely hoped that his silence would deter them.

"If we ignore it-"

"It won't help."

Simultaneously, two chairs scraped back. A horrible, grating noise.

"They're coming this way," she informed him through gritted teeth.

They looked at each other, dead on. There was no way that this could end well.

Anathema had always prided herself on her intellect, her ability to see things as they truly were and to act on that knowledge. She'd worked hard for them, even if they weren't always perfect. It was, therefore, with absolute eloquence, that she looked into Crowley's eyes, considered the irate celestial beings marching towards them, and summarised their situation in a single, definitive, "We're fucked."


	2. Chapter 2

Crowley half expected to feel a hand clamping down on his shoulder. Of course, in reality, neither Gabriel nor Beelzebub would deign to touch him, but he suppressed a shiver at the thought.

"Crowley," Beelzebub said with distaste, by way of greeting. They'd halted an arm-length away from the table, facing them and standing unsettlingly close to each other. "Witch."

Crowley pushed his chair back, angling it to have a better view of the pair. "Lord Beelzebub, Gabriel. What can I do for you?"

"Explain yourself."

He gestured vaguely at their surroundings. "I'm having dinner with a good friend. Wasn't aware that was a crime."

They huffed. “It izz not. But you are inconvenient witnesses.”

“Ah, yes,” Crowley spoke with venom, a result of years of discontent. "I don't think either upstairs or downstairs would be too happy about this, do you? If they found out…"

It was the wrong thing to say; Anathema's sharp kick to his left shin revealed that.

"They will not," Beelzebub asserted. "They have not and they will not."

"Ah, but if they did. It's funny how news travels." Crowley waved one hand around. "'I heard that Hastur was discorporated by a ten-year-old.' 'I heard that Sandalphon accidentally murdered Pope Celestine V.'" 

At the last point, Beelzebub shot their companion a deeply disbelieving glance.

Crowley, meanwhile, paused for dramatic effect. "'I heard that Beelzebub and Gabriel-'"

Glowering, Gabriel cut him off. "You're assuming that you're going to live to tell the tale."

"Oh, I plan to."

An uncertain voice interrupted them. "Excuse me!"

It seemed that, perhaps as a result of the waves of fury rolling off the angel, the humans had finally noticed that something was awry. The waiter, wearing an expression of serious concern, hurried forward. "Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen, but please-"

Gabriel rolled his eyes. "Nope."

With a snap of his fingers, the man froze. As for the rest of the room — they continued functioning, oblivious to the drama, as the angel drew a sort of invisible, miraculous veil between them.

"Now. Where were we?"

Crowley cleared his throat. "Well. Seeing as things didn't go too well last time you tried to interfere with me and Aziraphale…"

Crowley saw something flare in Gabriel's eyes. Almost unconsciously, he raised his hand, as if to smite them. "I swear to-"

"No." Beelzebub, the unexpectedly diplomatic force in the whole affair, drew Gabriel to one side with a jerk of their head. They took several steps, moving out of earshot, presumably to strategise.

Crucially, it gave Anathema and Crowley a few moments' breathing space. Without a second thought, her hand went to her bag, pulling out her phone.

Crowley, on the other hand, entered an abrupt mind-spiral. This is bad. This is very, very bad. Worse than losing the Antichrist. Worse than-

"We'll be fine," she asserted, as if reading his mind. Given the circumstances, she was surprisingly calm; underneath the table, though, her fingers were flying, nails tapping against the glass of her phone screen.

He kept his voice low, hoping not to draw any unwanted attention. "What are we going to do?"

Out of the corner of her mouth, Anathema muttered, "Don't worry. Help's on the way."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I messaged your boyfriend. Or husband. Or whatever."

His stomach dropped. "Did you really have to bring Aziraphale into this?"

"It was him or the Antichrist, who's currently an adolescent boy that's obsessed with moon-landing conspiracies. I didn't fancy our chances."

She made a good point, he had to admit. Still, he persisted. "What about Newt?"

"He doesn't do technology."

Crowley rolled his eyes. Of course. How could I forget?

They subsided, temporarily, while Gabriel and Beelzebub whispered to one another. Crowley strained to hear them, but failed; his only conclusion was to be disturbed, once again, at their apparent intimacy. Anathema, meanwhile, studied the wallpaper with alarming intensity.

They remained so for far longer than expected — their opponents' little conference was considerably lengthy, for no apparent reason. In fact, they were just turning back towards the table when the restaurant's doors burst open.

It was Aziraphale, looking determined and indignant and very much like he wished he still had a flaming sword. He made a beeline for their corner, coming to an abrupt halt a metre or so in front of them.

Beelzebub had summoned their characteristic uncaring disdain. "Why are you here? What are you going to do?"

"I - well," Aziraphale stumbled, stopping short. It was clear that he hadn't quite gotten around to asking himself that question. "I suppose-"

"Sit down," Gabriel ordered.

Deflated, Aziraphale complied, taking the chair next to Crowley's.

Gabriel took a breath, clearly struggling with his desire to immediately discorporate the pair of them. “Now-”

“Can’t we come to some kind of agreement? Anathema tried.

"As a human, I don't expect you to be able to understand this," Gabriel informed her, his tone patronising enough to raise both her and Crowley's hackles. "But archangels and archdemons just don't negotiate with mortals."

A beat.

"Fine," she declared, tossing her hair over her shoulder. "You asked for it."

Planting her elbows firmly on the table, she steepled her fingers. Her eyes slid shut. She began muttering to herself, words tumbling out of her mouth at a great rate of knots; there were fragments of English and Latin and Spanish, and half a dozen languages besides.

"What is she saying?" Gabriel demanded, brows knitting together in confusion and concern. It was certainly an about turn from his previous tone.

No-one answered him. They were too busy staring at Anathema, transfixed, to do anything, let alone try to stop her.

Aziraphale leaned over to Crowley, whispering, "It that a spell?"

The only answer he received was, "Why would I know?"

It was undeniably odd; in all of their years on Planet Earth, together and separately, neither of them had seen or heard anything like it. Apart from great focus, she seemed absolutely serene — a distinct contrast to the rhythmic chanting that proceeded from her lips, which was an ominous and entirely unsetting affair. At a push, Crowley would hazard a guess that it was some kind of exorcism. Not that exorcisms had any effect on angels, to his knowledge. 

Oh, well. He trusted Anathema. Besides, it wasn't as if he had any power to stop her — or any other options.

It was crescendoing, growing louder. He caught something that sounded a lot like begone, creature of another plane! in French, although those linguistic skills were too rusty to be sure, before she slammed a hand down onto the table.

And then there was an almighty flash of bright white light, an odd popping noise, and a pulse of celestial energy. 

And Gabriel had disappeared. 

Pouf. 

Gone.

"Thank fuck." Anathema breathed a sigh of relief.

"My dear, did you just discorporate him?" Aziraphale said, shocked, peering at the now-empty space where Gabriel had stood.

"I think so, yes."

"But how? He's an angel. An archangel."

"One of my ancestors invented a kind of exorcism ritual that works on angels. My parents made me memorise it when I was younger, but I'd almost forgotten it," Anathema explained, perfectly calm, as if she hadn't just defied every law that governed the damned and the divine. One does not simply exorcise an angel — unless one is Anathema Device, in which case it appeared to be a fairly mundane task.

"We never did find out what happened to Michael in 1862," Aziraphale said thoughtfully. "She seemed awfully flustered, even if she said nothing was wrong."

Anathema nodded. "That would've been my great-great-great-great-great grandmother's doing."

At Crowley's quizzical glance, Aziraphale added, "1862, dear. You were asleep."

"Right. 'Course."

A dry, cracked voice brought their attention back to the here-and-now. "How dare you!"

Right. There was still the Prince of Hell to deal with.

Beelzebub was glaring at them, absolutely furious. "You'll pay for that, witch"

"It's only temporary," Crowley interjected, a flimsy attempt at defending her. "He'll get over it."

"That izzz not the point!"

Anathema took over, "Look. Frankly, I think we all just want to get on with our lives."

Glaring, they remained silent.

"So," she continued. "We may as well come to an agreement. We'll keep quiet, you keep your distance."

"As before," Aziraphale hastily added. "No angels, no demons, no-one anywhere near us or Anathema, or London or Tadfield."

They tilted their head, considering it.

"Abzzolute silence," they asserted. "Or you will regret it."

Flooded with relief, the three of them practically fell over themselves to agree: 

"Of course, Lord Beelzebub!"

"Can do, no problem."

"Sure. Definitely. Not a word!"

Beelzebub gave them a final disgusted look before they sank into the floor.

For a terrible, suspenseful moment, none of them could relax. Then Crowley slumped into his chair. "Good on you," he told her. "That was some quick thinking."

She exhaled. "Thanks. I'm just surprised it worked."

"Well, thank Heavens it did. That's quite enough excitement for one day," Aziraphale said fervently. "And I rather think I need a decent bottle of wine and a good meal to get over it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finally finished the second chapter! I don't love it (the pacing feels off and I think it has an overreliance on dialogue), but I'm glad I got there in the end. Hope you enjoyed it!


End file.
